


East of the Sun (& West of the Moon)

by wajjs



Series: Across The Universe (vld fics) [30]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Falling In Love, Flirting, M/M, POV Alternating, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-22 14:43:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22117585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs
Summary: “You know, you didn’t actually tell mewhento meet you,” he says, “I didn’t have an exact date, or even an exact place.  I felt like a time traveler hunter for a while.”Shiro’s unsure where he gets the courage to say the words that come out of his mouth then: “Does that make me your prey?”
Relationships: Lance/Shiro (Voltron)
Series: Across The Universe (vld fics) [30]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/726072
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	East of the Sun (& West of the Moon)

**Author's Note:**

> So the general idea I was asked to work with included time travel PLUS blue hyacinths, which was an odd combination and I struggled to find a way to make it work. In the end I solved it by making the petals of the hyacinth an integral part of how time travelling works here. I also included several bits here and there that are about my own personal likes, something I did in order to keep myself motivated while writing this fic LOL

**East of the Sun ( & West of the Moon)**

🌙☀️

It’s the 15 of June in 1979 and he’s mostly there because he wants to experience the first showing of one of his father’s favorite films ever: Rocky II. He feels odd in the year-appropriate clothes he’s wearing, but no one is looking at him twice, so he guesses he’s blending in just fine.

The pendant with the pressed petal inside it feels heavy for a moment, hidden under his shirt and pressed to his bare skin. It’s a moment of self consciousness, something he doesn’t think he’ll ever grow out of — the pressure of the time he’s from telling him  _ you look all wrong _ . All this travelling and he has yet to come across a button that will let him switch off that voice.

Besides, he knows for sure he’s dressed perfectly for the occasion: he’s copied to a t the way his own dad dressed around this time. He also rests assured in the knowledge that their paths won’t cross: his dad will come to the U.S. within the next two years, and unless somebody else is messing up with time,  _ again _ , he doesn’t have to worry about accidentally causing a time-paradox…  _ again _ . It might have only happened once, and luckily the time-watcher managed to find a way to fix his mistake with only small, short lived repercussions in the future. The judgement from that one incident still follows him, though, still makes others scoff when they see him if their paths ever cross. Not that the time-watcher is the one imparting such judgement; he doesn't know what he would do if Allura were to scrutinize him like that (mostly because he's sure, without the shadow of a doubt, that if she were to look at him with such unwavering attention then she might snatch the pendant back simply because, well, he's not quite the person anyone would entrust with this kind of responsibility).

The feeling of uncertainty never sits well in his stomach. He pushes past it and instead chooses to focus on what he came here for: watch an admittedly awesome movie and have an overall good time before going back to his year and place. And he does, honestly, the popcorn warm and buttery and always the perfect snack. He's seen this movie already, but there's something about being in this here and now, about being in this _first_ _in history_ , that makes him get choked up like it's the first time he's seeing the scenes, like he's never seen Rocky run up the stairs, the background music elevating his soul to the stars. He's holding onto his seat, there's bubbles in his chest as his emotions dance. He feels Rocky's scream of _Adrian_ in his chest, resonating till it reaches the smallest crevices of his ribs and bones and like he once thought he now thinks: this love they have feels right.

It's magical because he's in the same rhythm of the crowd, feels like he  _ fits _ , even if for just a moment — a moment that's enough to make him forget his previous insecurities. His cheeks grow warm and there's a happy, easy smile on his thin lips. Some might prefer travelling to certain historical events that hold the faith of societies in their strings, but he… he prefers this. The easy aspect of this, the lack of pressure that comes from going to such pivotal moments: one step out of line and everything as it is known changes.

He remembers Allura's words to him, the ones that gave beginning to everything when she showed herself to him:

_ "I've been watching you, Lance. I can trust your light. I've been watching you since the moment your flower grew in my garden." _

A blue hyacinth. The color of his eyes.

Lance steps out of the theatre feeling like he's run a marathon himself, but at the peak of it: full of excited energy, of life thrumming through his veins, nerves and very molecules: like he could spread his arms open wide and admit that he feels like he can  _ eat _ the world, say  _ Here I am, bring it on! _

He's high on excitement as he steps onto the street, following the rhythm of the crowd and allowing to be mindlessly directed somewhere, without really having anywhere to go. Idly, he hums a song under his breath while he lifts a hand to play with his pendant, taking it out from under his shirt so he can feel the reassuring weight on his fingertips. He's like that, drunk on contentment, when he's nearing a corner, the traffic lights telling him to stop. Someone, a man, a stranger, bumps into him then, shoulder narrowly avoiding hitting him but his arm (strong,  _ big _ ) smacking him directly on the chest. Lance has a complaint already trespassing the threshold of his mouth when the unique happens:

Lance's pendant glows, faint but obvious is the unexpected shine, the single petal of the blue hyacinth heavier for a moment, hotter, too. The stranger's eyes flicker once towards it and his whole expression shifts in disarray for a second, two, and then his own pendant (hidden, like Lance's was before) gleams too, obvious underneath the shirt. Neither of them can say that the world stopped moving, that everything came to a halt, because they know that nothing can make the world stop going round and round. That idea of the universe holding its breath for two beings is nothing but romantic nonsense.

"Uh," Lance says, eloquent as ever, "same hat?"

The stranger's eyebrows twitch as one of the corners of his mouth flickers upwards. Lance prides himself in making the other smile  _ (that counts as a smile, no matter how small it might be) _ upon first collision.

"Same hat," he says, voice the literal sound good dreams are made of. A beat goes by and then: "I think we should talk."

"We should?," Lance kind of squeaks, half out of surprise half because another person just pushed past him, making him stumble. "Uh. Uh, yeah, here?"

A snort, definitely amused. "Yes, right here for everyone to hear," now the smile is undeniably there. "Come on, let's find a bar. I'm sure there's one nearby."

They end up walking a couple of blocks before the first bar comes within sights. By then, Lance has committed to memory the way this fellow time-traveller walks (handsome, extremely handsome fellow traveller), which was somewhat made easier by his less than furtive glances every couple of steps, trying to get in through his eyes as much as possible. The stranger is wearing gloves, that’s the first thing Lance notices, and a cool jacket, one that he can still wear in their own decade. He’s a tiny (itsy bitsy teeny) bit jealous because he can only hope to someday achieve that level of coolness, but it’s just a very small feeling of jealousy since curiosity and attraction definitely win over the raging war inside Lance’s head.

The guy is too damn good looking, to the point it’s almost distracting. Lance would’ve literally walked face-first into the bar’s door if not because he managed to tear his eyes away at the right second. Now embarrassment is clinging high on his cheeks in a pretty shade of red and he’s certain the other is well aware of everything that just happened, if he’s to say judging by the easy sideways smile that fits that mouth perfectly. Which is unfair, being completely honest, because if the guy smiles  _ like that _ how is he going to avoid feeling attraction?

“Come on,” the guy motions with his head as he pushes open the door and yeah, Lance is really glad they came to a bar since the inside of his mouth is suddenly dry. He needs all the drinks he can get.

“Yeah, sure, sorry,” trying not to cringe at himself, he valiantly attempts to go for a confident grin (though he’s sure it fell far from the mark). 

As they walk further into the enclosure Lance keeps reminding himself to stop staring so much, which is… a harder task than he wants to admit. And it goes further from the guy being admittedly hot, alright, there’s more to it than that: he’s never really interacted so much with another time traveller before, so he is feeling a bit out of depth here. Rightfully so, he thinks, considering how poorly his previous interaction with another hour hopper went — and ignoring all the other times the meetings lasted only a few seconds, more than enough for others within their community to recognize him as  _ that one dude who fucked up during their first run _ . It’s not like it’s a record (though it’s still rare, to mess up so much the time-watcher has to intervene), and it’s not like he had been previously given a full run-down of rules and no-to’s. He just. He just found the thing, and the thing took him for a spin without even asking if he was either single or ready to mingle. It could’ve happened to  _ anyone _ .

They choose one of the booths further from the entrance but with still a good view of their surroundings. Through the dirty windows Lance looks out to watch people go on about their lives, confident in the belief that their reality won’t change in a matter of seconds without knowing that everything could actually go sideways if either of them even considers going out of the path that’s already walked all over in their own decade. His hand automatically rises to press against the pendant he knows so well by now, with the single blue hyacinth petal delicately pressed inside.  _ “So that you will always find your way through time”,  _ Allura had said, right after giving it to him, behind her the vision of a never-ending garden filled with miles and miles of hyacinths in bloom.

He still gets breathless whenever he remembers that.

“So,” the stranger begins speaking after a handful of moments of silence, “I think we actually have a petal from the same kind of flower.”

“What?” Lance blinks back to this present moment and turns his eyes from the window to look at the face of this handsome guy, idly aware that he’s still touching his necklace, “Oh, that. How do you know that?”

“Well, it’s blue, isn’t it?” He says, grinning, and seemingly without any worry he pulls out his own piece of jewelry from under his shirt, letting Lance see it for the first time.

“That still doesn’t mean it’s the same flower,” he finds himself replying even as he feels tension he didn’t know was there easing off his shoulders. “Like, dude, there are  _ many _ blue ones.”

“I still think they look really familiar,” the grin grows wider and he leans in closer, one elbow and the attached forearm resting on the table, “‘sides, I never seen these things glow before. So that must mean something.”

Ok, the guy got him there. He does have a point. “Alright, ok, so  _ maybe _ they are. That still leaves room for what does that mean! I didn’t even—I thought she only gave, like, a different flower’s petal to each of us…”

“I don’t think that many flowers exist.”

“Well,” Lance drawls, also leaning forward and closer to the man, “are you a flower expert?”

His eyebrows rise, looking taken aback for just a moment. “Uh… no?”

“Then my theory is just as good as yours!”

The guy is opening his mouth, ready to reply (and wow, Lance can’t believe how absolutely  _ pretty _ he is), when a waitress stops by their table, notepad in hand and tired expression at the ready.

“What can I get you?”

“Uh,” Lance says, you know, elegantly, “A beer?”

She doesn’t even blink twice in his general direction, pen scratching over the paper, when she’s already turned to the other man and — ok, wow, that’s one quick change of attitude right then and there. He can’t blame her, not when he can relate.

“And you, hot stuff?”

Giving credit where it’s due, he doesn’t even react to the final two words. He just offers a polite smile and: “A beer, too, thank you.”

She leaves them then just as the crowd near the bar counter gets loud over something on the tv that looks just like the one Lance’s grandpa used to have while he was alive. Of course, this model is still relatively new for the day and age they are in.

“So,” the handsome stranger speaks then with a rogue smile on his lips, not moving back an inch, “All this and I still don’t know your name.”

“Oh right, that’s a thing,” he lets out a little nervous laughter, hand moving from his necklace to his hair, messing it up a little. “Name’s Lance. Yours?”

“Shiro,” he looks thoroughly entertained, “It’s nice to meet you, Lance.”

He can feel his cheeks heating up, which clearly means that he’s actually  _ blushing _ and being aware makes him blush even more. It’s a wonder how anyone falls for his suave act (no one does). He’s also pretty sure the guy—Shiro, his name is Shiro; he’s sure Shiro’s noticed the darkening of his cheeks because that smile just turned all the more tempting and Lance thinks he can see a gleam in his eyes, something that shoots sparks all throughout his limbs till his fingertips are tingling. And holy flowers, could he be—  _ no way… _

Lance scrunches his nose and shivers a little, not entirely used to being the focus of such unwavering attention. “This whole meeting feels a whole lot like it’s straight out of a romcom.”

“If that’s the case,” and Lance shivers again because Shiro just definitely licked his lower lip and  _ he was not ready, for goose’s sake _ , “there’s really nothing too straight about it.”

“I—,” he chokes a bit, laughter coming out of him in bursts, “Oh god, that was terrible!” 

Shiro’s entire face lightens up, almost like he truly enjoys the sound of Lance’s laughter. “Still true anyways, right?”

It dawns on him then, that Shiro just might find him as attractive as Lance happens to think Shiro is. That someone is actually, dare he say,  _ flirting _ with him. Which is a totally new (though definitely not unwelcomed) idea. This is by far the best encounter he’s ever had with another time hopper, and he’s not ashamed of admitting that he never wants it to end.

The night is no longer in full swing by the time they are back on the street, pleasantly buzzed and walking closer to each other than strictly necessary. Lance feels like the world is  _ his _ , and he has to say so:

“I bet Rocky felt this way too after getting to the top of all those stairs!”

Shiro blinks twice in surprise before laughing, his shoulder bumping with Lance’s, “Still can’t believe you came all the way here just for that.”

“Not that you had a better reason!”

“Ah, well,” he shrugs and doesn’t move away even though their arms keep brushing with each step, “you got me there.”

They turn down the corner and a streetlight above them flickers. Lance doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands: he wants to reach out like he normally would back in their own decade, wants to ask Shiro if they can maybe hold hands or hopefully, you know, get each other’s hands all up—he just wants to be able to, yet he’s aware that it probably isn’t a good idea. Not here, anyway. And he also doesn’t know if Shiro wants as much as well. So see, he’s trying to not ruin this. He’s got a history of ruining things and he doesn't want that to come in and act up all over the place.

Lance stuffs his hands in his pockets then, for lack of another thing to do with them, and they surely have been walking around aimlessly for a while… which is probably awkward, maybe he should do something about it. He lifts his eyes and finds that Shiro’s looking at him already, notices that the other’s still smiling and that he looks as beautiful here as he did back in the bar. His heart tugs just a bit, treacherously, like a heart does.

“This is probably pushing the rules a little bit,” Shiro says then, talking with ease as if he isn’t holding Lance’s breath in each word, “but… I really want to meet you again. And then again, probably, if the first again goes right.”

He's a little breathless and a whole lot falling face-first into a rapidly growing attraction, which makes him stumble and trip on his own feet. He manages to save himself from getting up close and personal with the dirty street by jumping a little at the very last moment, yet Shiro's hand is on his elbow anyway, helping him regain his balance. Lance thinks his heart is all the way up his throat with how fast it's beating, and that’s definitely him getting all tingly and warm just because the guy reached out to him and they are still touching.

"I, uh. I would. I would really like that." He offers a smile and it comes to his lips easily, surprisingly so; he can feel little knots unwinding inside his ribcage. “But, why bending the rules? I’m pretty sure no one said anything about stuff like meeting up being a no-no… Unless I missed that memo  _ completely _ , which, very likely, and—”

“Lance,” Shiro pulls him closer then, mirth obvious in his gorgeous eyes (did Lance say that Shiro has beautiful eyes already? Because he does. He totally does), “You didn’t miss anything. I just… I thought, well, since we met here, like this, wouldn’t it be a… well, now it sounds silly.”

Oh, lords, he even finds Shiro’s frown adorable. Lance is doomed. “No, please, tell me,  _ even more so  _ if it’s silly! Are you kidding? I bet it’s like, actually cool—”

“I wanted us to meet in another decade,” he says then, still frowning but it’s easing up a little, “since we didn’t meet in the one we come from.”

“Oh—,” Lance breathes out and watches Shiro’s expression (did they get closer?) for a second before a smile, the easiest smile he’s shown in so long, stretches over his lips, “yeah, like I said: that’s actually cool.”

They are no longer walking, he notices then, just as he also realizes that they are standing closer than before; there’s delight all warm and fuzzy in Lance’s stomach as he catches the brief moment Shiro’s eyes wander down to his lips before flicking back to his own eyes. This is the best thing that’s happened to him in what feels like forever, and he’s still half in disbelief that this is actually a thing. It’s not everyday that he ever feels like he’s been blessed with the best of lucks he could ever wish for… which is why he doesn’t want to push his luck and lean in for a kiss, even when he just got proof that it might not be an one-sided want after all.

Maybe it’s his imagination, but the pendant of his necklace feels warm. He wonders if Shiro’s feels the same.

“How should we do this?” He asks, feeling a little breathless, like the universe is holding him suspended in her gentle hands. “Whoever finds the other first gets to choose when and where we’ll be meeting next?”

“Sounds like a plan,” the words are so low it’s like they are being whispered. Shiro pulls away then, abruptly and teasingly. “It was my idea, so I guess I’ll choose now where we’re going to start.” He waits a beat for Lance’s reassuring nod and all of a sudden he’s right  _ there, _ so close they are basically breathing the same air, the tips of their nose brushing, “Buenos Aires, 1936.”

“But which day—,” he blinks twice, blinded for a second, and his mouth stays open, gaping like a fish out of water, because Shiro’s already gone. Embarrassment makes his cheek feel uncomfortably warm. “That’s definitely cheating,” Lance grumbles, too distracted to notice that his pendant is shining, that it has been shining for a while now, “I don’t even know the exact date.”

It adds to the thrill, though, and he gets going not a moment later. He does have to make a few stops here and there to gather everything he needs so that he doesn’t stand out like a sore thumb in a time and place so different from the late 70’s in the United States. It’s not like it makes him lose time because that’s the last thing he can lose — as long as his pendant doesn’t get lost or stolen, as long as it doesn’t break, time’s the one thing he truly has in spades.

  
  


The book is the sole reason he is here. It’s a bit unclear to him how he ever came to be so invested in an author to the point that he’s jumping through time to get an exemplar of as many first editions as he can without raising suspicion back in his original time. Because, being honest, there’s only so many first editions he can have without someone questioning how he even has them, and in such good conditions. Almost like they are new (which, they technically are, but it’s not something he can admit without raising  _ even more _ questions). Still, he’s happy because the book is now in his hands and he now has mostly everything he came here for. Not truly all of it, since the second reason is probably going to take a while and he shouldn’t find that funny, though he does.

He’s leisurely strolling through a park, enjoying the nice day for what it is and getting more wear out of the shoes he bought specifically for this event. Perhaps he’s going to get to wear them again, if he ever finds reason to travel to this decade again, or even without actual time travelling, since it’s not like he truly cannot wear them during a formal event in any other year. He’s enjoying himself though, the scenery is pleasant, and no one stares too much. One of the good things about suits is that they have long sleeves, which means that his arms are covered and he doesn’t have to go through extra lengths to cover his time-inadequate prosthetic. The hand and wrist are easily covered with gloves, and those never go out of style.

Book safely tucked underneath his arm, he walks at a slow pace. There’s some people milling about, men passing by with brisky steps, an elegant mother telling her child that he cannot let go of her hand, no, they don’t have time to play, they’re late—movement on the corner of his eyes has his snapping his attention to the stoned path that breaches the park, conjoining with other paths in the center where a fountain is. He stops and turns to look at a man sitting on one of the benches, newspaper open and held in a way that the face of the person remains hidden. Even from where he’s standing he can tell that the pants are made out of expensive cloth, the shoes are recently shined and regally elegant, too. His heart skips a beat (which should be worrying but he doesn’t find it to be). Could that be…?

“Found you,” the voice comes from behind him and he all but gives a little jump in surprise, turning around fully to come face to face with—

“ _ Lance, _ ” he breathes out then, reaching up to grab his book from under his arm so that it doesn’t fall to the ground.

“The one and only,” Lance’s eyes are so clear and blue that Shiro can feel his knees going weak before he tells himself to get it together,  _ they are in public. _ He still fails to stop himself from shivering when Lance gives a small step back, more than clearly looking at him from head to toe. “Damn, you definitely fill out a suit like it was made by gods just for you.”

He has to clear his throat twice before he can actually form words to reply. “I mean, I don’t think she’s a god, but she did tailor this suit for me.”

“Oh? And who’s she?”

Shiro grins sheepishly, fighting back the urge to scratch the back of his neck, “My mom, actually.”

Lance’s eyebrows raise up to his forehead and he checks him out again, slower this time. “ _ Well done, mom, _ ” Shiro thinks he says though he cannot be sure, it was so low and rushed out. He can feel himself blushing anyway, because he didn’t really think he looked as good as Lance is acting like he does. “Well,” he offers a rogue smile that Shiro has the need to kiss, “and how do I look?”

Shiro’s pretty sure the man sitting on the bench is looking at them warily, perhaps because they are both obviously flirting (and that’s kind of a bad thing, considering it’s the late 1930’s and the world is still not cool about a lot of stuff) or maybe because they are talking in english. Or a mix of the two, who’s to say? He ignores the stranger anyway because Shiro has better things to focus on like, say, Lance in a really nice suit standing in front of him, all perfect for him to see. 

“Beautiful,” he replies without giving it much thought so that he doesn’t backpedal out of cowardice, “I mean it.”

And it’s gorgeous the way Lance’s eyes widen, the way his blush spreads over his cheeks, how he looks surprised, like he’s never expected that to be the answer. It makes Shiro wonder then what Lance thought he would say, because Shiro can’t think of any other way of describing him. (Hopeless, the two of them.)

“I, uh,” Lance coughs once and lowers his head a little, smiling in a cute shy way, “thank you. I was a bit unsure about the hair.”

They start walking, side by side, until the guy on the bench is well behind them and no longer staring at them like they are aliens. Which, all things considered, they might as well be. Shiro lifts his hand holding the book so that Lance can see it, getting pleasantly surprised when Lance’s eyes light up with recognition upon reading the author’s name.  _ Historia de la eternidad _ , the title, teases Shiro, like a call for him to open it and read it even though he’s already read it before. He’s read everything ever written by Borges that he could get his hands on or, well, that he also could readily find after an internet search.

Stopping by the fountain, a comfortable silence settles over them. It’s nice here, Shiro thinks before he gets distracted by a small bird that flew down to bathe in the water, distracted enough for the glow and warmth of his pendant under his shirt to go unnoticed but not enough for him to miss the way Lance is leaning close to him, the back of their hands brushing together.

They walk more after that, unwinding their steps and restarting them again, and walking is truly a way of traveling through space and time. They go south through the city, following the road of the labyrinth that will get them to Shiro’s hotel — because he’s been here for a while, waiting and not just for the release of the book. Compared to his, Lance’s spanish is melodic and perfect, and he easily chats up the receptionist in the short time it takes them to cross the lobby and get to the stairs. No one looks at them twice, they fit in perfectly in a manner that makes Shiro think that there’s no way for things to go so smoothly if they weren’t meant to be. He still doesn’t like to think that because it’s too close to determinism for his comfort, so he pushes it aside, wanting to believe there’s more to existence than that.

He sets the book on the bedside table, knowing he will put it in a safe (secret) compartment of his luggage later, to keep it from suffering any kind of harm. Lance closes the door behind his back as he takes in the small room, looking from one wall to the other, and Shiro stands still by the side of the bed, unsure of what to do next. The two of them here, in what’s been his room and living quarters for some time, it feels too personal and intimate all of a sudden. He holds back from saying anything about it, unsure if it’s the same for Lance.

“You know, you didn’t actually tell me  _ when _ to meet you,” he says, smiling beautifully, and stands with his hands inside his pant’s pockets, “I didn’t have an exact date, or even an exact place, Buenos Aires is  _ huge _ , which, yeah, it made things interesting, trying to find you. I felt like a time traveler hunter for a while.”

Shiro’s unsure where he gets the courage to say the words that come out of his mouth then: “Does that make me your prey?”

“Oh,” Lance blinks, momentarily taken aback, and then he’s grinning, stepping over to him until they are so close the back of Shiro’s legs are pressed against the frame of the bed, “Maybe. Only if you want to.”

His breath hitches on the way out and Shiro closes his eyes, squeezing his eyelids shut for a moment because that shouldn’t sound as hot as it does and damn, he didn’t think he’d be tripping all over himself so quickly. It doesn’t help that he’s acutely aware that if he’s to move forward they’d be kissing. It doesn’t help that the intensity of Lance’s gaze has him feeling like he’s made of jelly.

Shiro opens his eyes and he’s still not prepared for the way he feels when he meets those blue eyes. “I… wouldn’t mind that.”

A flash of something promising and delicious dances on Lance’s gaze. He lifts a hand to caress Shiro’s cheek, his jawline next, the shape of his bottom lip last. “Can I—”

Voices on the hallway outside, arguing loudly about something it’s not quite clear, growing louder by the second, stop whatever Lance was about to say (and do). They both stay very still, looking at each other with wild wide eyes, and as a door opens and closes with a definite slam he pulls away in the span of a breath. His hand falls back to his side and Shiro can’t quite stop himself from staring at it longingly. The touch was so nice, and it’s been so long since anyone got so close.

“Sorry,” Lance says and cringes, voice raspy and odd-sounding. He takes a moment to compose himself, breathing deeply, and runs shaky hands through his hair. “Ok. Ok, sorry about that.”

“It’s alright—,” Shiro beings to talk but Lance isn’t quite done.

“I mean,  _ prey, _ huh? And like,” he waves a hand in almost circles, looking distinctly nervous “in this weird game of tag we have going on, since I won this round, that’d—that’d make me the prey. Because. Because you gotta—”

“Chase you now,” Shiro finishes for him, breathless, not at all guilty because of how thrilled the idea makes him. It must have been made clear by his voice, because Lance shivers right as he finished saying the words.

“Yeah. Which, uh,” licking his lips, Lance lowers his head a little and looks at him from under his lashes, “I think I would like that, too.”

“ _ Oh, _ ” he can’t help it, his knees give up on him and he falls on his ass on the mercifully soft bed.

“I feel like we say that a lot,” he grins ruefully, “ _ oh,  _ like we keep sucker-punching each other with surprises. It’s not a bad thing.”

They stare at each other then, the sounds of the street a couple of floors down below interrupting the silence brought by the lull in their conversation. Shiro thinks the moment stretches on for eternity, folding in on itself and expanding all over again until they are made anew, until they are reborn themselves. His eyes flicker briefly to the gleaming pendant underneath Lance’s shirt. He wonders if his own is shining as well. This feels like it’s important, like it means something. Like something so rare it’s about to escape his conscience altogether, like—

“I think I know where I want to meet next,” Lance says, and for a moment while looking at him Shiro sees a field of blue hyacinths going on forever, till the beginning of the universe. He almost misses what’s said next,  _ almost _ , but then the field recedes and Lance is back in the room and Shiro’s now realizing that there are some things Allura never told anyone.

  
  


He’s standing awkwardly in an open field, feeling exposed in the robes he’s dressed himself with. Togas don’t exactly cover his arm as much as he wants to, which is mainly why he’s here, away from where he knows the beginning of the polis is. He doesn’t want to know how people will react when seeing his prosthesis, it’s so age-inaccurate he’s either going to get arrested or… 

Before he can go down that train of thought, though, a portal opens up so close to him it’s basically above him, its color the same blue as the one of the hyacinth petal pressed inside his resin pendant. And through the portal he can see him, the reason for this chase that had Allura smiling at him teasingly when he stopped by to ask her a couple of things. Shiro’s heart leaps to his throat as Lance comes out, the skirt of his toga fluttering wildly and showing  _ more _ than what Shiro thinks he’s supposed to see, but everything’s put aside when he truly looks at Lance’s face. He’s the most beautiful person Shiro’s ever seen, radiant and earnest and full of life.

“Shiro!,” Lance laughs, fully leaping out of the portal that closes not a second later behind him, and he falls easily into Shiro’s waiting arms. 

Lance is still giddy with laughter when he leans in to press his lips sweetly against Shiro’s, who goes with it easily, knowing it’s the right thing to do, more than that, it’s the thing he’s been dying to do since they first met. It’s the best kiss Shiro’s ever had. It’s the best kiss soon to be followed by many other best kisses.

When they eventually break apart, foreheads pressed together, the two of them shine brighter than the light keeping Allura’s flowers in bloom. So bright that the gleam of their pendants cannot be seen, because they overpower it.

Already leaning in for another kiss, Shiro says: “Tag, you’re  _ it. _ ”


End file.
